Breath of Earth (5 page)

An assistant poured fresh seeds into the bin. Mustiness fogged the air. Dr. Hatsumi began work on Ingrid.

Reiki magic was one of Japan's many contributions to everyday American life. Its culture had infused society since the Unified Pacific had formed some forty years before during the brief War Between the States. Back then, Japanese airship technology had granted Union forces a quick victory over the Confederacy. The partnership had only grown stronger in recent years. Over a million Japanese citizens—mostly engineers of unparalleled skill—had moved to America's shores, though their native isles still abounded with billions of people
in need of land. Hence the need to clear China for settlement.

In truth, America's contributions were milder, but vital—California contained kermanite, and the nation offered bountiful young men to serve in the Unified Pacific's armed forces.

With sinuous motions, the Reiki doctor drew inherent life from the seeds and directed energy into Ingrid's ki. Seeing auras was a rare skill for geomancers, but all Reiki doctors were said to see colors as they tugged on strings of life.

Ingrid gripped the thin mat on the wooden platform. Little earthquakes had continued since she was pulled from the rubble. A gauzy blue fog drifted across the floor. Ingrid looked to the pendulum light overhead and noted a smidgen of sway. With so many geomancers nearby, it was rare for a trembler to cause a physical reaction.

Pain spiked in her back again, and she muffled a yelp.

She couldn't see the magic of Reiki, but she felt it like a dry electric spark in the air. No power existed in a vacuum. Reiki relied on the power of life to heal life, just as any geomancer relied on the roiling strength of the earth. Hatsumi was properly licensed, and used seeds and plants. Less reputable practitioners were more potent and bloody, and yanked life from chickens, dogs, cats, or even worse, other humans. Willing or otherwise.

“Still!” Dr. Hatsumi barked. His accent was thick, even in one word. Quite different from Mr. Sakaguchi, who had an almost aristocratic British lilt from his early years as a warden in Europe.

Ingrid pressed herself impossibly deeper into the mat. Cool tendrils radiated from the cut in her back. The wound smarted something fierce.

The sight of the auxiliary had hurt far more than her injury. Its three floors had dropped into the basement, creating a mound that seemed scarcely higher than the street. She knew that the ground beneath the building and much of downtown San Francisco was considered “made,” filled in with old rubble and other dirt to stabilize it enough to build on. In an earthquake zone, that generally wasn't wise, as a severe tremor could liquefy the unstable ground. However, that also meant that the earth was a potent conductor—ideal for the wardens, and for the boys in training.

With wardens present, made ground was safe. The city existed as it did because of the auxiliary.

The doctor's grunt signaled that her time on the table was done. She pushed herself upright, a blanket pressed against her chest, but the two men had already filed out and shut the door behind them. Her movement sent a mild stab of pain through her back. Reiki by plants didn't heal wounds completely, but it quickened the process. Within a few days, she expected to feel normal. Normal as one could be, after being buried alive.

She shuddered at the memory. Whose hand had been there, draped above her bubble? Had it belonged to a warden or an adept? She shoved the terrible image from her mind.

The earth shivered again as her feet met the blue-fogged ground. Warmth flooded her feet, her legs, and whirled into a cozy knot in her torso. She welcomed the heat, her eyes closing briefly in bliss. Within seconds, the trembling stopped.

Her clothes were bloodied and torn, but decent enough for the trek home. She certainly had nothing to be ashamed of,
surviving that. She had just finished dressing when a heavy knock shuddered through the door.

“Yes?” she called.

“Captain Sutcliff will talk to you.” No request, no niceties about it.

Ingrid opened the door. Despite her having shaken out her dress, every rustle of fabric emitted a cloud of dust. The soldier in the hallway gawked, his gaze unable to surmount her chest.

Indignation caused absorbed energy to flare to her skin. The current fashion was Orientalist and less formfitting, but Ingrid's dress was weighted by plastered layers of muck. Not that the dress's cut did much to hide her form anyway. Her body had the sensuous curves of the California foothills, her waist naturally defined as if she wore an antiquated corset.

“If you're done leering, sir,” she said coolly, “I can speak with the captain now.”

Surprised anger furrowed his brows as he turned away. She could read his expression—
you're not supposed to talk back to me.
She stood straighter, chin lifted as she followed him into the front parlor.

Mr. Sakaguchi and several soldiers awaited her. The doctor and his staff had vanished. Shades covered the windows.

“Miss Carmichael.” Mr. Sakaguchi's smile tugged at new scabs across his cheeks and jaw. His suit jacket was gone, the white shirt blotched in black, brown, and flares of red. His vest, always prim and perfectly ironed, was shredded in spots as though a kitten—no, a Sierran wyvern—had used it as a scratching post.

“How are you feeling?” Mr. Sakaguchi asked. He didn't glow blue. He must have already funneled energy from the recent quakes into his kermanite.

“Much better now, thank you, Mr. Sakaguchi,” she murmured. “And you, sir?”

“Well enough.” He nodded to the man beside him. “This is Captain Sutcliff, newly arrived in the city. Captain, this is my secretary whom I was just telling you about.”

Captain Sutcliff could have worn sackcloth and she would have known him for a soldier. His posture was rigid, as if his spine were bolted to a metal pole. Measured calculation shone in his pale blue eyes. His vivid blond hair reminded her of the Valkyries depicted in Mr. Sakaguchi's beloved Wagner prints, though Sutcliff's hair was parted perfectly down the middle and cropped close to his ears.

Even more telling were his shoes. The captain's black boots gleamed like mirrors, though she knew he'd been climbing about in the rubble.

“Carmichael.” Captain Sutcliff drew out her name. “You don't look like a Carmichael.”

She'd been teased on the subject before, especially by the Irish sisters who did the auxiliary linens. “I look like my father, sir, and he was a Carmichael.”

“And where was he from?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Maybe he was Black Irish.” Captain Sutcliff snorted at his own joke. Ingrid grimaced. Mr. Sakaguchi's smile was of poised politeness. He'd been Abram Carmichael's friend and peer, but both he and Mama made it clear that Papa never
spoke of his past. The man may as well have emerged from the wilderness at age ten, ready for formal training in geomancy.

“Maybe he was Cherokee, Mexican, or Hindu. I don't know, sir.” She said it lightly out of practice.

“Hmm. You usually don't have geomancers of
that
ilk, and he was a warden at a young age, correct? He must have been good.” The captain was not completely clueless after all, but a politician. Even more dangerous. “If you'll both sit down, I have questions.”

“As do we.” Mr. Sakaguchi lowered himself to a red velvet seat, wincing. Ingrid sat on a carved bench across from him.

“Is there no one else from the auxiliary, sir?” Ingrid asked.

“Not yet. Soon, I hope. We have other matters to address now.” Captain Sutcliff clasped his hands at his back. “Our business is urgent. I was traveling with my men on our way to the Cordilleran Auxiliary when we heard the explosion and witnessed the plume of dust. I am glad that you're well, Mr. Sakaguchi, and I extend the wishes of the United States and Japan that your recovery is uncomplicated.”

Pretty words, no sincerity. Ingrid rubbed the gritty fabric of her skirt.

Mr. Sakaguchi bowed his head, gracious as always. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Now, this matter I address is of a sensitive nature.” He inclined his head.

“My secretary is discreet. She's accustomed to the ways of the auxiliary.”

“I bet she knows all sorts of things, doesn't she? Very generous of you to take on your housekeeper's daughter.” Captain
Sutcliff's gaze raked over her. Ingrid clenched her jaw and stared back. She wouldn't quail. “The Cordilleran Auxiliary owns a stake in the Rex Kermanite Mine in Boron, California, does it not? How closely do your people monitor operations? Actually.” He pivoted on a heel to face her. “Perhaps this is something your secretary would know.”

Challenge accepted. “The auxiliary owns a thirty percent stake in the mine. The wardens don't directly inspect the facilities, but our offices receive reports on a quarterly basis. I understand the Unified Pacific directly owns a third.”

Captain Sutcliff's nostrils flared like that of a winded horse. His long face was rather equine. “Yes, yes. And Augustinian owns the other third, though that company controls damn near everything in regard to weapons. At least they're American. Did your recent report say anything unusual?”

Mr. Sakaguchi cleared his throat, and not just to regain the captain's attention. “Not that I heard, no, but I don't personally inspect the quarterly reports, only the annual. Quarterly assessments go through our most senior wardens, Mr. Antonelli and Mr. Thornton.”

“Well!” Another nostril flare. “Kermanite is, as you are well familiar, a fickle rock formation. By its very nature, it tends to shatter into small pieces.”

Ingrid had read volumes on the structure and known uses of kermanite. The crystals always accompanied boron deposits, and those deposits were only currently known to be in the Ottoman Empire—in Turkey—and in the Southern California desert. The Roman Empire collapsed when their kermanite supplies were exhausted, crippling their mighty dirigible
force and ushering in the Dark Ages. California's rush to statehood was based solely on a rumor of kermanite; the discovery of gold was an added bonus.

Most pieces of the crystal were finger-sized—enough to supplement a steam-powered autocar—or smaller. Larger chunks were used for airships, naval vessels, and ambulatory tanks like Durendals. Its cost—well, there was a reason Warden Antonelli resided on Nob Hill. Wardens were paid in kermanite and set their own rates from there.

“Get to the point, please, Captain Sutcliff,” said Mr. Sakaguchi.

“An unusual specimen of kermanite was recovered recently, one as large as a horse. I don't simply mean the body. I mean a standing horse, from hooves to withers.” He seemed pleased at their shocked gasps.

“How much does it weigh?” Mr. Sakaguchi leaned forward. “I've seen pieces about the size of a leg, but to be that wide and tall . . . ! How was it recovered?”

“The effort took weeks. It required multiple winches to pull it out, and a twenty-mule team to move it to the fort—”

“My God.” Mr. Sakaguchi sounded like a delighted schoolboy. “Even if it took months for us to fill, to work with kermanite like that, I . . .” His eyes shone.

It might take months for the wardens to fill, but Ingrid could do it much faster, especially if she had her hands on it during a significant earthquake.

Not like she'd ever be allowed near kermanite as priceless as that, not unless the wardens needed more coffee or tea.

Captain Sutcliff's tanned skin turned ruddy. “Yes. Well.
But.” He looked toward the window, unable to mask his scowl. “It was stolen.”

“Stolen, sir?” Ingrid gaped. “How does someone steal something that big and heavy?”

The captain's icy gaze gouged her. “The matter is being fully investigated, which is the very purpose of my visit. Your auxiliary is the largest on the continent. The expertise of your wardens—”

“You are not suggesting that we had anything to do with this theft.” Mr. Sakaguchi made it a statement, not a question.

“What we know suggests that it is coming northward. You must agree that your auxiliary has the manpower to fill such a crystal, and a geographical advantage.”

“A stone of that size, it would make more sense to bring geomancers to it, not bring the kermanite to the city.”

“Maybe, maybe not. This is a major port for sea and air. Your membership here is rather, shall we say, eclectic, and has strong connections abroad. Of your wardens, only Mr. Antonelli is American-born, and he's first generation.”

“Geomancy in America has only been encouraged for forty years, so of course the older men are from elsewhere,” said Ingrid.

Captain Sutcliff showed no reaction to her words. “National loyalties can shift when power and money are involved, or due to personal vendettas.” Something in his voice caused Ingrid to shiver violently. It was as though he had already come to a dreadful conclusion.

Mr. Sakaguchi went very still. “I was born in Japan and trained in Europe, but I have resided in the United States these
past thirty years. I would not live elsewhere. So yes, my loyalties have shifted. To America, Captain Sutcliff.”

That seemed to take the officer aback. “I see.” The men stared at each other for a long minute. “Have you been to China, Warden Sakaguchi?”

“I have not.”

“I have done five tours to China, two to the Philippines. I will not go into details, due to the sensibilities of present company”—Ingrid emitted a soft snort—“but it's an ugly war. You're well aware of what can be done with kermanite big enough to power an airship.” He motioned the size with his hands and forearms. “What could our enemies do with kermanite the size of a horse?”

Mr. Sakaguchi waved away the implication. “Very little, under current circumstances. When the war began over twenty years ago, China hosted some five hundred million people, scores of geomancers, and thriving industrialization. Now there are what—maybe a few hundred thousand survivors, scattered across the terrain?”